For This?
by Synthete
Summary: What happens to an Elf when he no longer serves the larger purposes of Middle-Earth?


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a/n: This is a very short little ficlet, and it's an AU -- set in the modern world. Thanks to the PenMaster for her story, _Black Velvet and a Lady Killer_, which started me thinking on this theme.   
  
Also, all the usual disclaimers apply here.  
  
ps. Just wanted to include a little plug for the Library of Moria, to which I've moved all my stories, especially the nc-17's. I suggest that anyone interested in a little more action than in this story check out what's there, post your stories there, tell your friends, etc. That is all.  
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The man stood leaning against the bar, feeling the covert glances and open looks directed at him, letting them roll off him like water. The shiny black surface of the bar, wet with alcohol sloshed out of glasses, hypnotized him as it reflected and distorted the already surreal environment of the club. Through his long fingers, their tips resting gently on the bar, he could feel the disorienting bass thrum of the music; he knew the disorientation would last only as long as his resistance to the bass, his attempts to think in any other rhythm. Soon his thoughts would pace themselves to the low throbbing, and the throbbing would become a heartbeat, drawing him out into the mass of humans on the floor.  
  
He looked down and remembered that he held a drink in his hand; he downed what was in the glass, not bothering to identify the contents beyond noting that it helped his blood speed up, catch up with the still-foreign pounding of the bass. The man stepped away from the bar, his tall, slender body somehow gliding effortlessly through the crush of people pushing towards the bar. He moved gracefully into the outer ranks of those on the floor moving their bodies all in sync, all hypnotized by the music.   
  
At first he could not feel anything but the pulsing of the masses around him, but could only drift along in the spaces left by the other dancers. He forced himself to find someone to focus on, and his eyes fell on a girl, moving slowly, to herself it seemed. He watched her for a few moments, but when he caught her eye he saw the glassy intoxication, and his eyes drifted away. He began to actively move with the music; he moved in toward the floor's center of gravity, where the concentration of people was highest.   
  
He danced alone at first, allowing himself to feel the attention of the women surrounding him, and many of the men. Eventually he found himself drawing closer to the other bodies; when he concentrated he could feel every individual contact: his hand brushed softly against an arm, extended to him in invitation; a woman's breast pressed into his side, so that he could feel her crinkled nipple through his shirt; a man's hand on his hip, demanding, pulled him forward; lips breathed hotly on the back of his neck as a hand wound itself into the long hair and pulled the golden strands out of the way... He did not resist, but relaxed into the clinging embraces, the ragged touches; he saw the desire in every eye he met, the desperation in some. He wanted to please them, to ease the pained longing they seemed to feel. And he reveled in the flashes of sweet harsh sensation, brief as they might be; he gloried in the rush of blood pounding in his temples, heating his body. He felt himself growing bolder -- the woman trembling as he brushed his fingers carelessly against her nipple; an unmistakable bulge pressed against his ass, dragging up the seam of his jeans; the sudden shudder and gasp as he rubbed briefly against the hard cock in the pants of the man in front of him --   
  
-- and later, the cry of the woman beneath him when he pushed his delicate, skilled fingers into her, fingers trained millennia ago for other, less human crafts; his own shudder when finally he released himself into her; the smell of pure human lust that would cling to his sheets afterward; the cool clammy wetness where his silvered essence had seeped out of the sleeping woman -- for this?  
  


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_The time of the Elves has passed, Legolas Greenleaf,' said the Grey Elf, he who had built the ships that had now all gone into the West, all but the very last one. You cannot postpone your decision any longer. The Grey Havens wait for me, and I long for them as well.'  
  
The golden-haired Elf nodded, but did not speak. His eyes were fixed on the dark sea, rolling fitfully and spraying both Elves with a salty mist.  
  
I do not understand what keeps you here,' said the Grey Elf after a time. You have had many thousands of years to know Middle-Earth, to feel its pleasures and pains; all those whom you have loved are gone, either to the Havens or to the cold embrace of mortality. Only in the West is it possible to find relief from the turmoil of this place -- an eternity of peace. Will you not join me, friend? Why do you stay?'  
  
The other Elf only stepped forward to clasp hands briefly. May you find in the West the peace you seek, friend.'   
  
As the Elf pulled his gaze away from the sea and turned to leave, the Grey Elf repeated the question that could have no answer. For what do you stay, Legolas Greenleaf?'  
  
  
  
  
  
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_a/n: So? This is kind of a draft of a theme I want to get into in more detail eventually, so any responses to how I've interpreted things here would be useful. What happens when you sever a powerful being like an Elf from the larger purposes a Middle-Earth Elf is immersed in? Review, or feel free to email me if you have thoughts on this question -- synthete2002@yahoo.com.  
  
  



End file.
